


Everyone is Rising to meet You, to greet You

by tuneinmymind



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-20
Updated: 2013-04-16
Packaged: 2017-12-05 21:02:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/727897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tuneinmymind/pseuds/tuneinmymind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary: In a World of Uncommon and Common, Harold of Cheshire was brought up with Spells and wanting revenge against the Tomlinson Family for what they did to his parents and he is finally getting the chance. What will he do when he finds that he may not know the full story of what happened to his family and that he might be falling in love with the blue-eyed Prince he grew up hating?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Surprise? (: .xx

“This will never work, you know that,” a girl spoke, standing in front of two other boys. She held herself tall, brown curls hanging long on her lower back, the tips right above the curve of her bottom. She was smoothing out invisible wrinkles on the skirt of her green silk gown, eyes piercing as she spoke. “The Royal Family knows what all of us look like, we won’t be able to get away with it,” she continued, voice lofty and persuading. Proud would be a very accurate description of her.

“But it _has_ to be one of us. We cannot trust anyone outside of the family,” the older of the two lads interjected, not trying to undermine her authority, but simply stating a fact they all knew. He shared the girl’s brown hair, but it was straighter and the edges of his face were sharper. He was dressed just as nicely, his tunic and leggings rich and silky. They were a family of wealth, and held themselves as such.

“Not even one of our other cousins?” The other lad asked, more timid than his older sibling and cousin. He looked more like his brother than his cousin, nose pointed and eyes blue, not green like the girl’s.

“No. We cannot risk it,” the girl stated assuredly. She sighed heavily, but did not show her frustration in any other way. Her hands twitched, as if she were going to tug at her curls like the older lad was, but she refrained, her etiquette training taking over without a conscious thought.

They were sitting in what seemed to be a cozy room, but to the trained eye, it was easy to tell that there was something more than what met the common eye. The room seemed to glitter, an iridescent shimmer than covered every surface of the room from the floor to the flickering fireplace to the low ceiling.

“Is that a crack in the Silence?” the girl asked sharply, pointing toward the empty sliver under the door. She walked over abruptly, boots clacking and dress swishing with every step before she muttered something under her breath and tugged the door open all at once.

A small mop of curls fell through and little hands grabbed at her skirt. The girl jumped back in disdain, tugging her dress out of what was sure to be greasy hands.

“Harold,” the girl scolded, glaring at the little boy who was currently sitting at her feet. “What in the World are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be with Nanny?”

The little boy tugged at a curl and blinked up at her with one green eye that matched her own. The other orb, however, was shockingly blue.

He just shrugged in response.

“Harold,” the girl warned, eyes tightening until they were slits, much like a sleeping cat when woken up. The little boy seemed unfazed by her apparent fury, and tugged his little tunic out from the belt that was holding it in place.

He beamed up at her after a moment. “Nanny was boring. I wanted to hang out with you, Ice Gem.” He nodded decidedly, and his gaze strayed from where it had been fixed on his older sister. He smiled even wider when he saw the other two lads. “Matty! Benny!” Little curls bounced as he waved to the boys, and he moved to stand, wobbling a little on his little feet. “Are you here for my birthday tomorrow? I’m turning _four_.” The little four year old, Harold, held up five chubby fingers excitedly before turning back to his older sister again in question.

“That’s five, love,” the girl corrected, giving in and showing Harold the proper amount of fingers to hold up. “Now, tell Gemma how you managed to make the empty space under the door.”

Harold held his arms up instead, waving them around in a silent order to be picked up.

“You’re too big for me to carry, Hazhead, Four Year Olds should walk on their own,” Gemma smiled, her cheeks dimpling in a pretty way. She looked softer like this, more relaxed than just a few minutes before.

“I’m thwee today, four tomorrow. Thwee olds can be carried.” The slurred statement came with six fingers, and Gemma leaned down to correct him and pick him up, pulling the little boy to her hip in a comfortable practice. “Now, the empty space?”

Harold blinked at her again and hid his face in her shoulder, his curls shaking in a fearful tremor.

“I’m not mad, Haz. Just curious,” Gemma said gently, prying his head up with a long, thin finger. The other boys, Matty and Benny, looked on with a fondness that hadn’t been there when the three were talking before, the tension having been broken by the three year old, and all sense of argument gone.

Harold sniffled a little, stopping his tears. “Like a kidden?” he asked shyly, his red-rimmed tears clearing rapidly as he looked at his older sister.

“Curious like a kitten,” Gemma smiled.

“I made it Light!” Harold exclaimed excitedly, yanking away from Gemma as he flapped his arms, making her hold him tighter to her side so that he wouldn’t fall. His eyes flashed gold for a moment, and the two older boys stood up quickly.

“Will you show us?” The older one questioned, his voice condescending in a way a three year old wouldn’t recognize. Gemma glared at him, and the younger one spoke up before she could say anything more.

“Yeah, Haz. Show us the Light!”

Gemma set Harold on the ground, and the little boy tugged at his curls, sweeping them out of his eyes in a way that made him seem older than just three. He surveyed the room, watching as it shimmered before his eyes, waves of sparkle and shine.

And then, it was gone.

“Did he just-“

“The Silence-“

“What-“

“How-“

“This is-“

“Impossible.”

The older lad jumped up from the armchair on which he had been sitting, his face alight with morbid elation. He looked down at his little cousin whose attention had moved to the fire and making it change colors- flicking from black to blue to green to red and back to orange at a rapid pace.

“Gemma,” he breathed. “He’s _perfect_.”

“What? Of course he is, he is of _my_ bloodline,” Gemma snapped, eyes narrowed at her cousin. The younger lad seemed confused, as well, neither one of them understanding why the little boy’s perfection was of any importance.

“No one has met him yet. I mean, Ala Knowing, most people barely even know he’s alive because he was born right before your parents-“ he cut off, but then continued quickly after Gemma waved her hand dismissively, “-he didn’t get a proper Birth Right Ceremony, so they don’t even know he was Born, much less his _Skill_. He could do it. He’s _perfect_.”

Gemma observed her little brother for a moment, and when she turned back to the other boys she was smiling wickedly.

“The Tomlinson line will be destroyed from beneath their very noses,” she stated, a cold air rising around the room. Her green eyes flashed icily. “We will revenge our parents in due Time. Now, we must plan and wait until Harold is old enough.”

~O~


	2. Chapter 1

“Where are you from?” Gemma asked quickly, her voice a simple whisper as she pressed her body closer to the stonewall, her dark men’s tunic and leggings blending in with the surroundings until she was just a blob. Her eyes were darting around, making sure there was no one there.

The boy next to her muttered a reply, barely audible because of his mumbling.

“What’s your name? And what happened to you?” Gemma reached over to tug at the boy’s tunic, pulling it to hang off of his shoulders evenly. He flinched from her touch with a glare, moving the shirt back to where he liked it. The boy shook his hair out and smoothed it back, revealing his pale forehead.

“What is the point of me answering these when I’m just going to say I’ve lost my memory? It’s going to be _fine_ , Ice Gem,” the lad replied sharply, a green and a blue eye flashing in the dusk. There was a certain fondness in the way he pronounced the nickname, as if she meant a great deal to him.

“Don’t call me that. You’re not a Child anymore,” Gemma retorted just as harshly, but it was obvious that she held a certain fondness for the nickname, as well.

They were standing along the edge of the great stonewalls that surrounded the Palace, amidst large grasses that ran all the way up to the very edge of the wall. Above them guards were circling, and if they were to look directly down, they might be able to make out the small figures of the boy and the girl. Gemma pushed her body against the wall even more, just in case, worried about what would happen if they were caught, tugging the boy with her.

The Fortress of the Palace was certainly intimidating, and while she had grown up there, it was perhaps even more ominous returning again after so long.

She only wished the Palace walls weren’t Spelled so that they could have used an Invisible, but if they had they certainly would have been caught.

“Are you sure you’re ready for this? We can always wait another Year. You’ve not even turned Eighteen Years Old, Haz,” Gemma stated, verbalizing a bit of her worry, albeit, in a way that made the boy feel even more sure that he needed to do this now. He could see the worry in the girl’s eyes (was she still young enough to call a girl?) and he wanted to make it go away, but he knew he couldn’t.

“I’m sure,” he affirmed, voice strong and assertive.

“And remember-“

“I’m Common, I _know_ ,” the boy interrupted exasperatedly with a sigh. He pulled his shoulders back in an attempt to make himself look bigger, stronger, as if that would help assuage her concern. He was tall for his age, but lanky, all lean muscles and quick movements.

Gemma looked unsure, but she saw the determination in the lad’s eyes, and seemed appeased by that. After all, she wanted this just as much- if not more- than he did. She had waited for over a decade for it, raising the boy to be just as he was in the moment- fully prepared, ready.

It was hard to grasp that this boy standing in front of her was her little brother. He had grown so much over the years, becoming the perfect tool to fulfill her plan.

“Mother and Father would be so proud of you,” Gemma whispered, her voice soft, and she lifted a hand, dragging the back of her fingers gently along his cheek. The boy leaned in, enjoying the moment of comfort and assurance. He wanted to believe he was old enough, was ready, but it still felt nice hearing it confirmed with the allusion to his parents, the people he had never met, but felt so much towards.

Gemma pulled the boy toward her, remembering when he fit into her arms, not the other way around, but now, he was wrapping long arms around her and she slipped into his embrace easily, her head resting above his heart on sharp collarbones.

They held each other tightly, not knowing if this were to be the last time they were together, or when they’d see each other again, if ever.

The breeze swayed around them, tousling identical brown curls, and giving the night a slight chill that was felt deep in the bones.

A whistling from above broke their embrace, and they glanced up, making sure they were not caught. It turned out to be a guard, but he was only whistling amicably, presumably to pass the time, and they breathed easier, all tightness from adrenaline loosening in their muscles.

“I love you,” the boy murmured, pressing a kiss to Gemma’s temples- the right side, then the left, and finally, her forehead. There was a shimmer when his lips pressed the third kiss, and usually Gemma would protest the Luck, but she felt that she would need it; they would both need it.

“I love you, too. Be careful, Harold.”

The lad let out a chuckle, squeezing Gemma’s hand and pushing another kiss to the back of her hand. It seemed that any fear he had been feeling had disappeared and he held himself even taller, loose and comfortable, commanding, like a prince.

He was ready.

Neither spoke another word before Gemma muttered a quick, “I’m sorry,” and administered the first punch. She started square in the stomach, and Harold doubled over from the blow. It only got worse from there, kicks and punches littering his entire body as he tried to keep from crying out, instead letting little whimpers fall strangled from deep in his chest.

Gemma tore at his clothes with her nails, ripping them to shreds so that the cold air hit his bruised and bleeding body. She scratched at his unblemished face, blood dripping from his forehead along his cheeks and lips. He could taste the copper, but it mixed with his silent tears, salty and thick. His curls started matting with blood as well, sticking to the wounds under his hair.

Another hit to the face left his right eye seeing spots, and he could barely keep it open as he desperately hoped for the searing pain to be over soon.

He endured the pain in silence, knowing this was hurting Gemma just as much as it hurt him.

Finally, the blows ended, and he felt himself being tugged to his feet. He could barely stand, but he knew what had to be done now and he let himself be turned in the right direction, hoping that he would be able to finish the rest of the journey as he was, broken and bruised and aching.

With a kiss to his shoulder, he stumbled forward, hands running against the stonewall, tearing at his palms as they rubbed against the harsh minerals.

Two steps away and he heard Gemma speak once more.

“Harry…” they both paused, and he could tell she was crying, her voice choked and in her throat. “Just…good luck, Hazhead.”

And then, he was moving again. One step, two steps, three steps, and four blending together until it felt as if he had been walking for days, for weeks, for months. He didn’t know how close he was or how much further he had to walk.

It was hard for him to see past the pain that coursed through his entire body and he felt light headed, weak.

He walked unsteadily on his feet until he felt as if he couldn’t go any further, and then, he continued walked, a few steps away from feeling as if he would collapse and have to crawl the rest of the way, and then, -

“Who goes there?” A voice- male- shouted, and although he couldn’t see, he could tell the man was close. “Answer me!” Harry wanted to answer, but his throat was closed off, dry, and he could taste blood and saliva mixing and almost choking him from when he had bit his tongue in an attempt to stay quiet.

He tried to speak, but it ended up coming out as a strangled cry and moan.

All at once, there were hands on either side of him, holding his arms tightly and keeping him upright.

“Sire? Are you all right? Sire, what happened?” A different voice asked, still male. His right eye was still glued shut though, too puffy for him to see through, and his left was seeing stars and white light from the pain. It was hard to distinguish where he was, but if he tried he could vaguely recognize the front gates of the Palace and that he was being held by two armed Guards with six more standing in assorted places in front of the Gate.

“I-“ Harry managed to start, but then, he couldn’t think anymore, could barely breathe, and he collapsed forward until the Guards had to hold his entire weight. If he were awake he would have turned around, looking back to see his sister disappearing into the night, but he was out cold, any thoughts clouded by pain as it overtook his body.

The Guards lifted him by the feet and shoulders, gasping as they saw the wounds that littered his body. He was a mess of blood and dirt and scraps of cloth, but he had done it. He accomplished what he needed to that night.

It had Begun.

~O~


	3. Chapter 2

Harry’s taken through the gates immediately, his body bouncing where the guards can’t support it and he wakes up multiple times, passing out from the pain immediately after he hits close to consciousness. The guards carry him through the maze of halls, and the next time he awakens, he’s laid out on a table.

Voices are speaking in hushed tones near him, but he cannot understand any of the words.

Harry squeezes his eyes tight- well, his left eye, that is, as he still cannot even open his right one. There’s a dull throbbing in his head, the pain sharper right behind his browline, and it feels like this one time when he was about Seven Years Old and he had gotten a Headache. He can barely feel the rest of his body, a numbness spreading, and he thinks it’s just his body Healing itself, but, well, he can’t really tell. He tries to stop it, just in case, because he is supposed to be Common.

Harry mutters a few words, and once more, the unbearable pain is coursing through his body, causing him to pass out.

*

“The King said to leave him here until Morning,” he hears next, and the surface under his back isn’t so hard or rough as it had been before. Is he on a bed?

Harry moans, wishing he could pass out again so that he wouldn’t have to deal with the pain.

“Did he say anything about a Healer?”

“She’ll be up shortly.”

“Hey, Kid. You awake?”

Harry groans again, trying to stay as still as possible so that he doesn’t put himself in further pain. It’s hard, and anytime his muscles so much as twitches he can feel it in almost every bone in his body. He manages to open his eye- the green one- and is met with two faces leaning over him.

The first is tall and thin, his face round and bearded, eyes small in comparison to the rest of his body. The second is shorter, even rounder, and beardless, but the mop of straight brown hair on his head makes up for the lack of hair on his chin. They’re both wearing sparkling silver chain mail, holding helmets under their arms.

A royal insignia covers their left breast, purple and black swirls indicating that they’re part of the Royal Guard.

“Mmph,” Harry manages, and then, he’s left in a coughing fit that wracks him from head to toe, simultaneously causing more pain to surge with a high intensity. He has to physically clench his hands in order to stop himself from just Healing.

“Whoa, there, little Guy,” the tall Guard presses two hands gently to his shoulders, holding his back down against the bed- and he is on a bed, or rather, a cot. The cot is a foot or so off the ground and it’s simple, just a metal frame with a tan rucksack as the body support. It looks as if it’d be scratchy, but is smooth against his back, thankfully. He’s strapped to the cot with a thin sheet, as if to either lock him in place, or make sure he is not hurt further.

Harry hopes it’s the latter.

The cot is in a small room with a high ceiling. There’s a small wash bin in the corner and one window, but it’s dark outside, so he cannot tell what lays beyond the glass. There’s a couple candles lit and sitting on a square table that is pushed against a wall, directly in the center, and fireplace is flickering with flames, the fire lighting up the room more than the candles, letting off a warm heat at the same time. The walls are all stone, and the ceiling is made of mahogany wood beams.

“The Healer is on her way,” the shorter Guard says sympathetically, looking at Harry with a pitying look, definitely thinking about how he didn’t envy the young boy and all of his wounds. “I’m Joshua of-“

“Should we be telling him our names?”

Joshua glares at his taller counterpart, but leaves out his Home nevertheless. “And this is Daniel.”

Harry closes his eyes in response, unable to do anything more than just shallowly breathe, hoping the Healer really is on her way, and comes quickly. He’s never hurt this much, or for this long, always used to Healing himself whenever he managed to have an accident. Although, there was one time when he was Eleven Years Old and Gemma had asked him to cut some of the potatoes. He had mistakenly sliced his hand because his grip was slippery, and then, passed out because he had hit the big vein on his wrist. Gemma had to slap him awake and he immediately Healed himself though, so even then he hadn’t been in pain for very long.

His breathing evened out quickly and he fell back into a restless sleep to the sound of the Guards- Joshua and Daniel- arguing about whether or not it was safe for them to have told him their names.

*

The next time he awakes he feels refreshed, the major pains gone, and only a sore ache in his muscles. He can tell right away that the Healer had done her job properly, and he’s glad because he’s not sure he has the pain tolerance to deal with anything more than this dull soreness. Stretching his body out, he starts with his fingers, extending them experimentally, and then, proceeds to do the same with his toes and legs and arms and neck.

When he finally opens his eyes- and yes, both eyes- he’s met with a face full of Sunlight and two more Guards, who are standing by the door, their backs to his cot. He imagines that at least one of them should be facing toward him, just in case he was dangerous, but he’s hardly going to try anything, not wanting to ruin the plan when it has been working so spectacularly thus far.

Harry looks down at his body, and sees he has been put into different clothing- Servants clothing. The leggings and tunic are simple, but clean, so he has no reason to complain; especially with the state he imagines his old clothes to be in. They must have been thrown away, or even better, burned, so as not to spread Disease from the blood and germs.

Harry coughs quietly, but it’s enough to catch the attention of the Guards.

These two are older, their faces more serious, and he can tell right away that he certainly won’t be in the pleasure of knowing _their_ names. Not that he really cares.

“You’re awake,” one of them says, voice gruff behind his metal helmet. Both Guards are dressed the same as the other two had been, but their helmets are on, giving them a more austere and severe look.

The one who hadn’t spoke walks over, grabbing a hold of Harry’s arm and yanking him up. Harry grunts, his body still sore, but the Guard has no qualms as he tugs Harry to his feet and shoves him forward.

“Hands behind your back, Boy.”

He follows the command, crossing his wrists behind him above his lower back, and he feels a rope slid around them, tightening as it goes. He could easily Unlock it, but they don’t know this, so it’s all the better for him. Just in case.

He’s pushed forward again, and falls into step between the two Guards, wincing as his bare feet press into the hard, cold stone of the Palace floors. They lead him through countless halls and he loses track of their path as they pass dozens of portraits and velvet curtains that blur together.

The Guard in front of him is walking briskly and he can still feel the ache of Gemma’s beating as he is forced to keep up.

Eventually, they come to a halt in front of two large, wooden doors. The entrance is adorned with countless gold-painted swirls and the patterns are entrancing, all leading to the two door knobs, which are once again gold- pure gold from the looks of it- with a large ruby lock in the center of each globe.

“Wait here, Boy,” one of the Guards instructs, approaching the ornamented doors and knocking once with the brass door knocker. The other Guard stands behind him, grasping his wrists in a tight hold that causes the twine to rub against his skin uncomfortably.

Moments later, the doors open widely inward with a gust of air that blows Harry’s hair off of his forehead, and he’s met with an impressive sight.

Just within the doors there’s a carpet- a maroon carpet, to be exact. It’s pressed clean without an ounce or speck of dirt- Magicked, surely- and has golden threads all along the edges, looped and lain out in an orderly fashion.

Guards stand no more than a foot away from the carpet on stone, much like the rest of the castle floors. Their armor is shiny and looks as if it had been cleaned that very morning- must be part of their Etiquette, Harry didn’t learn much about the Royal Guards’ Rules- and they all have their masks down, breath coming through the slits over their mouths. They all hold themselves upright, stiff, as if pieces of a chessboard, and across their chests they hold long staffs with equally lengthy blades.

The Guards look like statues and there must be at least twenty on both sides. They look harmless as is, but it is obvious that they are trained to fight, their Posture and Aura emitting a heat of icy danger.

The Room has high ceilings, held up with wooden posts and it is practically barren except for the maroon rug and the Guards. Well, empty until the rug comes to an end, right in front of a chair, or rather, a Throne.

The Throne is simple at best, a creation of ivory wood, carved from an ancient tree. It is simple, but exudes power, endless power. One can easily tell that this Throne is majestic, made to hold a Ruler and fit only for a King.

From where he is stood behind the doors, Harry can tell there is a figure sitting on the Throne, but he’s far enough away that he cannot tell who it is. Two more figures stand next to the Throne, one on either side, and have their hands resting on the shoulders of the figure sitting- he supposes it’s the King.

A twack against his calves startles him, and Harry finds his knees almost buckling as he stumbles forward, trying to catch himself. He finally uprights as a Guard tugs his tied wrists to stop him from falling, almost yanking his shoulders out of socket in the process.

“Walk,” the Guard commands, and Harry complies right away, unsure of where he is being taken. “Eyes on the floor until you’re commanded otherwise.”

Harry obeys, eyeing the maroon rug and vaguely wondering if he is dirtying the velvet surface with his slightly dirty feet. The Guards on either side of him are intimidating and he can sense the tenseness in the room. The walk goes by quickly, and soon enough, Harry is commanded to halt once more, and he waits at the steps in front of the Throne.

He studies the cracks of the stone floor that is not covered by the rug, noticing the way it rivets and twists naturally, much like a Life Path, veering in many different directions, going this way and that.

The entire Room is silent, all for the breath of the Guards closest to him, and the steady rise and fall of his own chest. Harry tries to breathe quietly, aware of the Silence and not wanting to break it.

“Look at me, My Boy,” a kind voice demands, the tone smooth and silky, but rough and powerful all in one. It is the voice of a God, or it could be, and there is a certain command in it that cannot be denied. The man it belongs too doesn’t look like his voice, Harry notes as he looks up at the figure sitting on the Throne. He looks thin, lean, but his body is rippling with muscle, even at an elder age, and Harry can tell he is powerful.

There is a woman on his right side, dressed in a beautiful gown that sweeps low across the floor. The gown is maroon, a shade darker than the carpet, and made of silk, pearls and gems adorning it delicately. A brooch sits on her left breast- the Royal Insignia. The woman’s hair is down in a precarious up do, twisted and curled, held in place by an assortment of pins. Her face has very little face paint, but she doesn’t need it, natural beauty apparent, especially in her blue eyes.

On the left side of the Throne stands a boy, not quite a man, but certainly not a child. He is dressed in black leggings tucked into black boots, a maroon tunic tucked into the waistline. A silver vest covers the tunic, and a black waistcoat hangs tightly over the ensemble, the tails of the coat falling just above the curve of his bottom. He is wearing the same brooch over his left breast.

Harry exhales as he is met with the sight of the Royal Family- or part of it, at least, none of the Princesses seem to be present. He wonders if he should feel hatred toward them at first sight, but this thought is quickly replaced with awe because never in his life has he seen such a Beautiful sight.

The image of the King, the Queen, and the Prince is grandeur, and when his eyes meet the Prince’s, Harry wonders how the two people who ruined his family were able to create such a magnificent son.

~O~


	4. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry this has taken so long!! .xx

“What is your name, Boy?” The King demanded. He was a mountain on the Throne, tall and strong and powerful, but with an eerie sense of peace emanating around him. It was hard to believe that this family in front of him- this King and Queen and Prince- was the same one he had grown up hearing about, from Gemma’s countless tales about their parents and how the Tomlinson Family ruined them.

They were kind and soft- although they still had the hard edges of any Royal, but that was hidden away and kept a secret, and Harry supposed it did not show its face until someone did something terrible, awful, and it made him wonder what his parents had done to deserve their Fate.

He immediately retracted his thoughts from that Area, though, because while the Tomlinson Family may seem lovely and kind and wonderful just from their image in the Throne Room, did not mean anything.

Their beauty was surely just like the wings monarch butterfly- not just because they were both monarchs- but because they were beautiful and bright and attractive, and yet, they were poisonous, evil.

“Answer the King,” the Guard behind him thwacked the back of his calves, emphasizing the order with the wooden end of his staff. Harry lurched forward and was brought to his knees as his legs gave out from weakness paired with the blow.

He looked back at the maroon carpet, missing the way the Prince flinched as if to move forward when Harry was hit and fell.

“Harold, mi’Lord,” Harry mumbled, answering truthfully so as to make it easier on himself when being addressed. He didn’t want to give a false name, and then forget what it was, or something foolish of the sort.

The King regarded him cooly and Harry could feel the three sets of Royal eyes bearing down on his bowed head. Behind him, the Guards were still stoic as ever, not moving, like an old Oak tree standing for years, protecting the forest with shade.

There was a Silence, a Pause in Time, and Harry closed his eyes for a brief moment, snapping them open when he felt a hand on his shoulder. “Please stand up.” Harry rose, the sore, weary bones of his body creaking and moaning like an old House being attacked by a fitful storm.

He stood in front of the King, and the older Man was a tower, hovering over his already long, lanky body at a height that measured at least a hands length longer than the very tip of his curls. Even with Gemma’s overbearing presence Harry had never felt insignificant or small, but standing there before the King, he felt like a Child.

“What is your Age?” The Queen joined her Husband, gliding down the stairs with state and grace and Harry could only hear Gemma’s stories of how beautiful his own Mother was, how she held herself like a Queen and her Beauty rivaled that of the woman standing in front of him. The unbridled Rage filled him up to the brim once more, and he vowed not to be deceived by the Royal Families’ outer looks- he needed Revenge for what they had done.

Harry met the eyes of the Queen with passion in his orbs- the blue and green a fire, flickering hotter and hotter until they were practically smoking. “I am Seventeen Years Old,” he murmured, and he could tell the Queen had many Years on him, if the wrinkles around her eyes and forehead and mouth were any Indicator. He remembered Gemma explaining that the Queen shared the same Birth Day as his Mother, and the fire in his eyes burned hotter as he wished to be able to see the wrinkled face of the Mother he never met.

A cough came from the left of the Throne, where the Prince was still standing, now alone, and Harry’s gaze snapped to the Royal Son, who couldn’t be much Older than himself. The Prince was eyeing him curiously with the likeness of a cat watching a toy mouse- he looked as if he were about to pounce.

Harry didn’t have much Time to ponder the look, though, because the King was questioning him again, this time about his Commonality, which he adamantly stated as pure Common. He suppressed his Uncommonality, feeling it shrink to a tiny, glowing ball deep within his Soul, and he kept it there, knowing he wouldn’t be able to Touch it or Use it for his entire Time at the Palace. It was too risky, arriving from an unknown Place and being Uncommon; the Royal Family could never know his wasn’t Common.

~O~

Harry had been taken through another set of long halls, ones he didn’t recognize- not that he really remembered much about the other halls he had walked through earlier- and deposited in different room than where he had been that morning.

The King and Queen hadn’t said what they were going to do with him, but seemed to be communicating to each other in a way that only married couples could do, all eyebrows raises and flashes of the eyes and eyelids dropping at different levels as if saying, “We should put him here” and “Yes, perhaps” and “Maybe we should just rid ourselves of him.”

He had looked over his shoulder on his way out of the Great Hall, squinting his eyes as if he were looking straight up at the Sun, and found the Prince gazing his direction. Harry’s eyebrows furrowed as he thought of how the Prince watched him depart from the hall, and he could practically feel the weight of a headache entering his brain at the image of Prince Louis eyeing him throughout the entire interrogation.

He let his hands drop from where they had been massaging his temples and looked around the new room- observing the low ceiling, dim lights, and countless cots lined up like beggars asking for bread on Alms Day.

Harry had been instructed to stay in the room and specifically not move from the cot on which he was deposited. There wasn’t anywhere for him to go, anyway, with the only door being the one they entered through and he knew a Guard was still standing in front of it.

He wished he could have found a way to stay in contact with Gemma, but any Magic exiting the Castle perimeters was trafficked and controls, probably so that the King’s Sorcerors could catch anyone with suspicious or malicious intent.

The Kingdom of Evenshire was a well-known one, with great influence over other Kingdoms and Lands. They were in control of most Trade routes, and could decide what Beliefs or Religions or Truths or Falsities spread to outside Lands.

Harry closed his eyes, letting his eyelashes rest carefully against his upper cheek bone, crossed his legs, and rested his hands sit on his knees, large palms spread out like a blanket covering a small pillow.

He meditated peacefully, losing track of Time.

~O~

“Boy, Wake up.”

Harry was shaken from his Trance, and he immediately sprung to his feet, prepared for anything. He wasn’t prepared, however, to be met with the sharp eyes of an Elder woman.

She was short, at least a headspan or two shorter than he was, and wore the tunic and leggings of a servant- a higher up servant, though. Her hair was grey and wispy, but still streaked with black, and tied up in a bun, out of her eyes and held with pins and needles. The lines around her eyes crinkled, indicating a soft smile. Her nose was sharp in contrast, and lips pursed, so Harry supposed he wouldn’t be seeing her smile any time soon.

“You’ll be me new Kitchen Duty,” she instructs. “M’ name is Hilda, just Hilda.”

She inspects him, and darts an arm out to grasp his hand, flipping it over and running rough fingers over his palm and up each finger.

“Eh. No callouses, you’ll havta fix ‘hat soon, m’laddy,” Hilda nods to herself as if thinking of a way to toughen up his skin to the likening of a cows hide.

“I’m sorry, Mum, what?” Harry questions bewildered, blue and green eyes trained on the woman in front of him. He swipes a hand through his hair, shakes his head like a wet dog, and cards his fingers back through his curls. He blinks the Trance from his eyes- close one, two, three- and widens them once. His shoulders slouch down in an attempt to make his lanky body seem smaller, the presence of an Elder already making him feel the full weight of his Seventeen Years- or lack of weight, rather.

“The King-n-Queen ‘ave ordered for youta be put ta work in the Kitchens,” Hilda explains kindly, and oh-

Oh.

Harry smiles- a small smile, a hint at the joy he’s feeling. His eyes brighten, though, shining like a lone candle in an otherwise dark room.

He’s staying…

He’s _staying_.

~O~


End file.
